Then Mr. George told the “Bath” story, and episodes in Mel’s career as Marquis; and while he held the ear of the table, Rose, who had not spoken a word, and had scarcely eaten a morsel during dinner, studied the sisters with serious eyes. Only when she turned them from the Countess to Mrs. Strike, they were softened by a shadowy drooping of the eyelids, as if for some reason she deeply pitied that lady.
Next to Rose sat Drummond, with a face expressive of cynical enjoyment. He devoted uncommon attention to the Countess, whom he usually shunned and overlooked. He invited her to exchange bows over wine, in the fashion of that day, and the Countess went through the performance with finished grace and ease. Poor Andrew had all the time been brushing back his hair, and making strange deprecatory sounds in his throat, like a man who felt bound to assure everybody at table he was perfectly happy and comfortable.
“Material enough for a Sartoriad,” said Drummond to Lady Jocelyn.
“Excellent. Pray write it forthwith, Drummond”, replied her ladyship; and as they exchanged talk unintelligible to the Countess, this lady observed to the Duke:
“It is a relief to have buried that subject.”
The Duke smiled, raising an eyebrow; but the persecuted Countess perceived she had been much too hasty when Drummond added,
“I’ll make a journey to Lymport in a day or two, and master his history.”
“Do,” said her ladyship; and flourishing her hand, “‘I sing the Prince of Snobs!’”
“Oh, if it’s about old Mel, I’ll sing you material enough,” said Mr. George. “There! you talk of it’s being unnatural, his dining out at respectable tables. Why, I believe—upon my honour, I believe it’s a fact—he’s supped and thrown dice with the Regent.”
Lady Jocelyn clapped her hands. “A noble culmination, Drummond! The man’s an Epic!”